He said it didn’t matter.

I thought I’d heard wrong, but the fact that I had no passport and was on my way to Europe did. Not. Matter.

I rested my forehead against the cool of the plane window and stared out at the endless blackness, broken only by the blinking white and red lights on the plane’s wings.

Stellan was taking me to Paris, Jack had a British accent, and they could get me into another country without a passport. They run your world, Stellan had said.

I glanced at Stellan. As soon as we’d taken off, he’d stretched out on one of the ivory leather couches and fallen asleep. He snored lightly, the white T-shirt he’d had on under his dress shirt pulling tighter across his chest with every inhale. One hand rested on his stomach, rising and falling with the easy rhythm of his breath. His other hand clutched the handle of his knife—dagger, sword, whatever it was—even in sleep.

There were other couches, and my seat leaned back so far, I could lie down, but there was no way I was sleeping with the heady combination of anxiety and exhilaration coursing through me. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, and my foot wouldn’t stop bouncing.

How had my mom gotten involved with this? An aristocrat’s son studying abroad, falling in love with a commoner? Or a powerful politician seducing a young girl, then ditching her when she got pregnant? How had I not known my mom’s life was a soap opera? And what, if anything, did the mandate have to do with it?

The plane pitched, and I drew a sharp breath. Stellan sat up and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, the hint of soft sleepiness in his face and the blond halo of his tousled hair making him less intimidating for a second.

I’d expected Stellan to look less epic in the light and without half the prom staring at him like he was a Greek god, but I was wrong. Where Jack was always perfectly put together, Stellan might have cut his mop of hair himself, and he’d slept in his clothes. And still, he was attractive in an almost unbelievable way, like he glowed from the inside.

Well, I didn’t care if he was a Greek god. I didn’t trust him for a second. And that would have been true even if he hadn’t pulled a knife on me a few hours ago.

He cracked his neck from side to side, then stood and stretched his arms above his head, raising his shirt to expose a strip of toned midriff.

I averted my eyes, but not before he caught me and smirked knowingly. “We’re landing soon. I’m going to clean up,” he said, scrutinizing me. “You might want to do the same.”

I tucked my feet under my skirt. I knew I barely looked presentable for a small-town dance, much less for meeting with government officials in Paris, but it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t had time to change out of this punch-stained dress or wash my face or anything. I was lucky I happened to have a hairbrush and contact-lens drops in my bag.

“What’s the mandate?” I said, putting on a veneer of bravado I didn’t feel, but that I’d need if I was going to get any information out of him. I’d already run through all my questions once, in the car after we left prom, but Stellan had ignored me and spent the whole drive making official-sounding phone calls in French.

He reached into an overhead compartment. “Nothing that concerns you.”

I pressed my lips together. “You said something about a search. Can you at least tell me what you’re searching for?”

He retrieved a small leather duffel bag and tossed it onto the seat. “What’s everyone always searching for?” With a glint in his eye, he leaned in close to my ear. I tensed. “Treasure,” he whispered.

The breath whooshed out of my lungs, and I frowned up at him. He chuckled.

“Is my, um.” The word still felt strange. “Is my family from England?” I said.

He took a folded shirt out of the bag. “The Saxons are from England; maybe they’re your family.”

A smile pulled at my lips. My relatives had British accents. “And you don’t work for them?”

He reached up one slim arm to pull down the combat boots he was wearing when I first saw him. They hit the floor with two hollow thumps. “I represent another family of the Circle.”

I traced the cream-colored leather of the seat through the lace overlay of my dress. “Which is what, exactly?”

Stellan paused, then turned, his hand resting on the overhead compartment so he loomed over me. “The Circle of Twelve?”

I shook my head.

He narrowed his eyes. “They claim you’re family, but you didn’t know your father, and you don’t know what the Circle is.”

I pressed my lips shut. Jack had said not to tell him anything. I didn’t think I had anything to tell, but Stellan had seemed especially curious since the dance, so I wasn’t going to risk it.

Stellan shook the creases out of the clean shirt, then stripped off the one he was wearing. I tried not to watch him, but my breath caught when he turned to put his bag away.

A network of scars crisscrossed his back. They were startling, long and slightly raised, but didn’t look like any scars I’d ever seen. Not fresh ones, like when Joshua Metcalf had been in that car accident in tenth grade, and not old ones, like the one on my mom’s leg she got falling off a horse when she was little.

These were translucent, and they disappeared into two tattoos, both black, made topographical by the scar tissue underneath. One was a sword, starting between his shoulder blades and traveling down his spine. The other looked like a sun, just above it.

I stared at my headrest. The same sun symbol was embroidered onto each seat and etched into the mirror behind the bar and on every door in the plane. It had a large circle in the middle, with short rays coming out of it.

My eyes snapped to Stellan’s back, to the scars, to the sun tattoo, to the sword, until he closed the bathroom door behind him with a bang. I slumped back into my seat.

The Circle of Twelve. Maybe they weren’t government, but a group of European crime families. A French and British mafia. Was there a French and British mafia? Maybe that sun was their symbol. And those scars were . . . some kind of brand? Or just an old injury.

And there was also Jack’s tattoo, which was different. So . . . rival families?

My excited side conceded a little to my nervous side, and I buried my face in my hands, not sure whether to cry or laugh or scream. I decided to take out my bobby pins. My head hurt.

Since Stellan had taken the bathroom, I peered through the rows of crystal liquor bottles to the mirror behind the bar. I felt like a mess, but I looked even worse. Besides the stained dress, my mascara had smeared, and my hair was a wreck.